


Volleyball and Chill

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Dates, Fluff, Fluff? In My Fic? It's More Likely Than You Think, June YahaShira Day, June YahaShira Day 2018, Sports Stores, YahaShira Day, YahaShira Day 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: “So...” Yahaba bounces nervously on his heels. “You, uh, busy tomorrow after school?”Not looking up from his phone, Shirabu nods. “Yeah, I have to—”“Great, I’ll pick you up at sev—”Slowly, almost reluctantly, Shirabu looks up to see Yahaba blush bright red, hands clasped over his mouth, as if he can take the words back by grabbing hold of them and not letting go.The beginnings of a smirk lift Shirabu’s lips. “You did not just do that.”Hands still covering his mouth, Yahaba spins on his heels and walks away. “Goodbye forever.”





	Volleyball and Chill

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Em, please, proceed with caution.
> 
> For everyone else: Happy YahaShira Day!
> 
> Formerly a gift for Em

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Walking through the glass doors, his face split into a goofy grin, Shirabu already knows Yahaba will do something very stupid.

“Stupid?” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Yahaba strides over to a kayak display. “Like driving all the way out here for tape?”

“I will abandon you here.”

Not waiting for a response, Shirabu heads for the end of the aisle. Bright advertisements line his path, interspaced with Fitwear models and compression sleeves. An image of a man runs along a sunrise. Mannequins play pretend basketball. Against shining linoleum, Yahaba’s ratty sneakers squeak with each step as he jogs to catch up.

“You really know your way around here, huh?” Like a child distracted by a sign for free candy, Yahaba stops to stare at a rack of hoodies.

“Not all of us have your bad sense of directions.” Slowing at a row of shelves, Shirabu moves past the elastic bandages, stopping at the display of athletic tape. Plastered on the glossy boxes, faux sports models give bright smiles. Conveniently flexed limbs overshadow expensive price tags. Scanning labels promising “more support” and “lasting tackiness,” Shirabu doesn’t watch Yahaba emerge from the nearby aisle, doesn’t so much as glance at the sparkling pair of Hello Kitty kneepads strapped over his ripped jeans, and most definitely doesn’t hide a smile by reaching for a simple black box of professional grade tape.

“I’m buying these.”

“I’m selling you.”

“Relax.” Plopping down on a mirrored bench, Yahaba unstraps the kneepads. “I would never wear these in a game. I have some standards, you know.” Shirabu arches a disbelieving eyebrow, but Yahaba only smiles. “They’re a gift for Kyoutani.”

Shirabu shakes his head. “They better serve cake at your funeral.”

“They will, but it’s salted.”

Exchanging the small box for a slightly larger one of the same kind, Shirabu weighs the options of eating a cake made of salt against being less petty. The answer is immediately obvious, but, as warm fingers close around his wrist, Yahaba’s shoulder brushing against his, the sarcastic remark evaporates on his tongue.

“This is a good brand. Matsukawa-san used it last year for blocking.” Yahaba releases his wrist, but warmth still trails through Shirabu’s skin. “So what else are we getting?”

“Just this.” Awkwardness pooling in his stomach, Shirabu turns back the way they came.

“What? But wait a minute.” Quickly, Yahaba surges forward, jumping over a stray shoe measure, to block Shirabu’s escape. “We just got here.”

“Your point?”

“My point? Well…” Yahaba glances around, eyes desperately searching out the rows of reusable water bottles and home gym sets. Gentle pink blossoms across his cheeks. “Well, I… We… Ah!” Grabbing Shirabu’s hand, Yahaba tugs him past a forsaken weight set to where game tables line the frayed carpet. “We haven’t played foosball yet.”

“Foosball?”

Procuring a ball between two fingers, Yahaba repeats, “Foosball.”

Shaking his head, Shirabu turns away. “You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m actually playing this.” The carpet muffles his footsteps, but his shoes squeak when they reach the linoleum.

“So, you’re afraid to get crushed?”

Shirabu freezes, his glare icy. “What did you just say?”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, come on!” Yahaba throws his paddle on the ground, fingers yanking at his hair in outrage. Behind him, the ping pong ball bounces distantly across the floor.

“That’s twenty-one.” Shirabu adds the final item—a second hand tennis racket—to their makeshift scoreboard. “Get wrecked, Yahaba.”

“That’s it,” Yahaba growls. “I’m going to destroy you in billiards.”

“What’s that?” Cupping his hand around his ear, Shirabu leans closer. “I can’t understand you. I don’t speak sore loser.”

“Yeah right! You tried to kill me over air hockey.” Yahaba rubs his throat gently, as if expecting it to be bruised. “Near death by hockey puck.”

“You were cheating.” Shirabu crosses his arms over his chest, but, feeling petulant, he lets them drop to his sides. Instead, he collects their borrowed tennis rackets and moves them back to their dismal clearance bin. “You nearly broke my hand.”

“Okay, look.” Grabbing two pool cues off the wall, Yahaba offers one to Shirabu. “This will be the last game. Winner takes all.”

“What am I winning?”

“I,” he draws out the syllable to its fullest extent, “will be winning a free smoothie from you when this is done.”

“In your dreams,” Shirabu says, but the confidence fades from his voice. With each step closer to the pool table, it seems to grow bigger somehow, the eight ball tauntingly moving farther away. The cue stick he snatches from Yahaba feels cold and unwieldy in his hands.

Across the table, Yahaba hits an effortless break shot, scattering the balls in all directions. “Stripes or solids? I’ll let you choose.”

Warily, Shirabu watches a solid ball roll past one of the pockets. “Stripes.”

Gaze not leaving his target, Yahaba nods. He holds the pool cue steady, fingers splayed across the green cloth. Imitation bar lights turn his hair a dusty shade of gold, but his eyes gleam.

 _Smack_!

The seven ball disappears inside a pocket. Yahaba stands up straight, repositions. Movements calculated, he strikes a second time. The three bounces off the wall, vanishing into a corner pocket.

“Lucky shot,” Shirabu mutters.

“Luck has nothing to do with it.” Smirking, Yahaba leans against the table, cue stick behind his back, and shoots beneath his arm. Shirabu watches, mouth dry, as the four and six fall into pockets, one right after the other.

“Show off.”

With a wink, Yahaba pockets the five ball. “I used to live near a bowling alley.” Lining up the tip of the cue perfectly, he knocks the two straight into a pocket. “Played billiards ever since I was tall enough to reach the table.”

 _Darn it_. Shirabu glares at the eight ball. Viciously, he wonders how hard it would be to flip the entire table over.

Yahaba catches his eye, and his gaze softens, lips quirking in the faintest of smiles. His next shot hits the ball wrong, and it bounces pathetically past its target pocket. “Oops.” Yahaba rubs the back of his neck, the action as stiff and forced as his words when he adds, “Bad luck.”

 _Luck has nothing to do with it._ The cue weighs heavy in his hands, but Shirabu positions it like he’d watched Yahaba do, fingers clammy against the cloth tabletop. _Don’t miss_. The nine waits defenselessly before the cue ball, but it feels miles away, ready to spin off in all the wrong directions. Shirabu holds his breath.

 _Smack_!

The nine slams the wall, missing horribly.

Shirabu raises the pool cue to throw it.

“Wait”—Yahaba points at the left corner where a different ball rolls slowly, inching along the cloth, and, with great reluctance, falls into a pocket—“you got one.”

Self-consciously, Shirabu lowers the pool cue. “Speak of this again, and you die.”

Yahaba holds up his hands in a sign of surrender. With a satisfied nod, Shirabu moves around the table, cue aimed once again for the treacherous nine. _Take this, screwball_.

“Wait,” Yahaba says, but the urgency from before has faded, leaving his words a soft whisper. His hand glides down Shirabu’s shoulder, coming to rest on his wrist. “The angle’s off. You’ll hit a foul.”

As Yahaba lines up the shot, his chest pressed against Shirabu’s back, scattering his thoughts like the pool balls strewn across the table, Shirabu thinks this must be a trick, _knows_ this is some form of cheating strategy, but, with Yahaba’s other hand resting delicately on his hip, his breath ghosting against Shirabu’s ear, he suddenly feels like a free smoothie is no longer the prize to be won.

“Alright, now try.”

“If you sabotage me”—Shirabu draws back the pool cue—“you’re going to need more than pink kneepads to save your soul.”

Yahaba chuckles, the sound reverberating through Shirabu’s chest. He hides his smile against Shirabu’s shoulder. It sparks warmth through Shirabu’s skin, all the way down to his fingertips, and, as the nine ball spirals perfectly into its pocket, Shirabu almost wishes volleyball could be like this, too.

 

* * *

 

“One.”

The heavy bag doesn’t sway, hanging motionless against the movement of the earth. A small tag reads one hundred thirty pounds. Looking up at the hook suspending it by rough chains, Shirabu wonders how it hasn’t broken.

“Two.”

Shirabu takes a step back. Set high in the opposite wall, rectangular windows glow with amber light. He’s never been in the store this long before.

“Three!” Yahaba bolts full speed down the aisle and leaps.

The bag takes his kick head on, absorbing the impact and launching him sideways into a nearby shelf. Handwraps and shin guards rain down on his head. Half buried under stray boxing shorts, Yahaba glares, face burning. “Don’t laugh, Shirabu.”

Shirabu bites his lip.

“Don’t you fuc—”

The left side of the shelf collapses, showering Yahaba in mouth guards.

Shirabu bites down harder, but his lips twitch into a smile. A snort escapes, and then he’s laughing, clutching onto a stand for support. “Y-you, you m-moron.” His lungs burn. Wrapping his arms around his stomach, Shirabu tries to calm down, but, as Yahaba slips on his mountain of fallen headgear and foot grips, Shirabu dissolves into another fit of laughter, tears stinging his eyes.

“I hate you,” Yahaba says, but his face splits into a soft smile.

Shirabu meets his gaze, and suddenly it is no longer the laughter making it hard to breathe.

 

* * *

 

“You ever want to play anything else?” Yahaba throws the basketball up and catches it. “Besides volleyball?”

“No.”

“No?”

Leaning back into the hammock, Shirabu tucks his hands beneath his head. “No. This was always my goal. To play strong volleyball on a strong team.” Shirabu struggles not to yawn. His muscles feel worn, his head heavy. Hidden under sports tape, his fingers ache. The stress of serving, over and over and over again, resides deep in his limbs, yet it leaves him feeling calm, satisfied. This is what he was made for.

“That’s cool.” Holding the ball up, Yahaba jumps, pretending to shoot it into an invisible hoop. “I don’t know if volleyball was really a goal for me. Back when I first joined, they just wanted someone tall.”

“You’re not tall.”

“What? I can’t hear you from down there. Speak up.”

Shirabu searches the hammock for something to throw, but, finding nothing, he settles for a glare. “Begone, lamppost.”

Shaking his head, Yahaba ditches the basketball on the child’s playset where he found it. A moment later the hammock dips, and then Yahaba is beside him, stretched out lazily on his side like a cat soaking in the last rays of the sun. Carefully, Shirabu rolls over to face him, watching the way shadows flow across his skin in gentle waves as the hammock rocks.

“I guess I did like baseball,” Yahaba says, gaze pensive.

“The last thing this world needs is you with a large stick.”

Yahaba chuckles. “Maybe it would help with being captain. Help keep Kyoutani in line. Then again, he might try to play fetch with it.”

“Your team is weird.”

“Like you’re one to talk? But you know…” Slowly, hesitantly, Yahaba reaches for his hand. “Without volleyball, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“Sap,” Shirabu mutters, chest tight.

“Strong words from the boy who still owes me a smoothie.”

A smirk lifts the corner of Shirabu’s lips. Checking his watch, he asks, “What’s the hurry? You said you wouldn’t pick me up until seven.”

Quickly covering his face, Yahaba hisses into his hands, “I’m never going to live that down.”

“Nope,” Shirabu agrees. “Now let’s go, loser.”

Yahaba peeks at him from between his fingers. “Where?”

“There’s a café down the street.” Valiantly, Shirabu claws his way free from the hammock's comfortable clutches.

Through the windows, the sunset casts their path in cadmium gold, yet, with Yahaba’s hand clasped tightly in his, it feels as if the day has only just begun.  


End file.
